Holiday Mischief

There is almost nothing more adorable than a baby goat - which is why people get them. This is exactly what happened to us, after Emily fell in love with her cousin's new pets and begged for her own "bottle kids." Almost three years later, we are the oh-so-proud owners of two 80-pound monsters who somehow produce their own weight in poop every day...but this blog isn't about Emerson and Ellie. Today's story features Leia and Obi, once smaller than a chihuahua but now full-grown and perhaps the most naughty goats I know. According to my sister, these sweethearts have recently decimated her outdoor Christmas decorations, including a set of gold bows, an entire wreath (delicious!) and three strands of lights. (They leave the cords but pluck and eat all the crunchy bulbs. Remember, goats can climb trees.)  Fine, she decided, we'll just forego outdoor displays and keep the decorations inside.

Lesson 1 - Never try to outsmart a goat.

Last night, scrolling through her favorite social media site, my sister was shocked to spot a photo of Leia (her dark-colored goat) amidst a tangled mess of holiday decorations on a neighbor's front porch. Reading the accompanying post, she discovered what had happened. Now with a taste for Christmas decor, her goats had apparently pushed through a hole in the fence and visited a nearby house.  Munching the festive arrangement, they made enough commotion that my sister's neighbor opened the front door - which of course was the perfect opportunity for Leia to bolt inside and head for the Christmas tree (does it get any better than this??). As the woman and her husband frantically chased Leia around their living room, Obi meandered around back and devoured all the lights on the deck railing. Naturally, for every ornament the goats consumed, they left a little something behind...

Lesson 2 - Sometimes you really, really need to bake cookies for your neighbors. Either that, or pack up and move in the middle of the night...

Also, don't be fooled. They grow up...

In and Out, and Around...

My goats are not like other people's goats. I've come to accept this fact. Here's what I think, though. If you are stuck with time-consuming, money-sucking pets who have absolutely no useful purpose, you might as well find ways to enjoy them.

Every morning I send Emerson and Ellie on a treasure hunt around their yard. This is how it works. While they eat their breakfast on the deck, I hide several locust seed pods (their favorite crunchy snack) in strategic locations around the yard. When I bring them back down to their pen, they wolf down a bowl of apple chunks, then look up at me expectantly. At my command - "Pods!!" - they're off, each goat eagerly finding his own trail of treats. Emerson knows to start at the yellow slide, then move to the wooden bench, the green cube chair and the picnic table. Ellie takes the right-hand path, from his platform (see Batgoat) to the fence, the yellow cube and the small picnic table. Each goat knows his assigned "stations" and I have never seen them try to steal from each other. After crunching down the last pods, they come stand beside me and "water" the grass, knowing I will praise them - "Good peepee, Emer! Good peepee, Ellie!"  

With neutered male goats, urinary health is critical. Make them drink, make them pee. Recently I've discovered something to make them drink even more - animal crackers. If I give the goats each a few of these dry, crumbly treats before pouring their water, they'll guzzle the bowl dry - like when you eat popcorn during a movie and then crave another soda. It's all about routine - but now unfortunately Em and Ellie turn away from any water that isn't warmed, spiked with apple cider vinegar, in the preferred bowls, and preceded by animal crackers.

Last night I dreamed that my husband took the goats to a local animal rescue while I was at work, trading them for a pair of black and white dogs and hoping I wouldn't notice the difference. At first I thought it was a nightmare. I wonder, though...

A Water Horror Story

Yes, people have accused my goats of being spoiled, finicky. They demand their hay be ultra-fresh, their apples cut in neat, bite-sized chunks, their water warm and spiked with vinegar and served in small bowls only.  Generally I comply to their whims, but occasionally I do ask them to compromise.

Saturday evening we had dinner reservations and tickets to a not-so-local theatre. Knowing we would be gone several hours, I left Em and Ellie water in a tall plastic bucket in their shed. This, I hoped, would stay warm longer than the individual tiny bowls they prefer.

When we returned home at midnight, I found the goats agitated and thirsty - eagerly downing two gallons of warm water from their little bowls. Why didn't you just drink from your nice bucket, boys??

                                             Oh, that's why. I may never drink water again.

How to Hypnotize a Goat

You may be wondering, why on earth would I want to hypnotize a goat? Just trust me on this one. Caprine hypnosis is not only possible but also useful, along with skills like stacking hay bales, giving injections, and wrenching off those bothersome scurs that plague my goats...

Remnants of horn tissue on a kid improperly disbudded (dehorned) at birth, Elliot's scurs persist despite two early sessions with a branding iron - a horrific experience I vowed never to repeat after holding him down for the second procedure when he was three months old. I can hope he has no memory of his shrill screams or the odor of burning flesh - so we live with scurs, which repeatedly sprout like little knobs and then curve wickedly downward toward his head. Every few months, or when one threatens to lacerate his skin, I ask my husband to sneak up behind him and wrench them off -  a technique requiring both surreptitious stalking and a sharp twisting motion I have never been able to master. (I can barely open a pickle jar, much less rip horns off a feisty goat!) Still...

Here's another fact. While goats enjoy any kind of affection, they absolutely love having their ears rubbed. You may think that Emerson (in the above photo) is displaying a heightened state of alertness by sticking his ears out like batwings, but he's really begging for an ear massage. Come on, human, can I make it any more obvious? Pleeeease... Here a kind owner would sit in front of him and grasp both ears (think - holding a pogo stick), then briskly rub the silky tops. Aaaahhh, bliss... A true animal lover might transport him to Goat Nirvana by rubbing the fleshy insides of his ears - which sounds revolting but actually I've found that ear slime washes off quite easily.

Last evening I was sitting in the shed with Em and Ellie for their bedtime routine (hot water, nightlight, lullaby...) when Ellie put his head on my knee and went all batwing. I obliged and stroked his ears - amused, then perplexed, as his eyes glazed over and he emitted little snoring sounds. No response to his name, no response to "want a cookie?" - could I? Dare I...? One hand still rubbing his ear, I gripped his right scur ever so gently, twist, pull - SUCCESS!! And he slept on...

To be fair, I must admit that a lack of the usual profuse bleeding makes me suspect that this one was already knocked loose. Still, Elliot is phobic about anyone touching a scur, so even getting my hand on it is a testament to his massage-induced hypnotic state.  You are feeling very sleepy...You will never poop in the shed again...Cold water is delicious...

Like I said - a useful skill!

Trick-or-Treat!

Happy Halloween from Em and Ellie (who chose their costumes to commemorate the 75th anniversary of our favorite classic film).

Elliot: I've been clicking my hooves together all day, Lion, but I still can't get us back to that delicious poppy field!

Emerson: Courage? Who needs it? If I ever meet The Great and Powerful Oz, my only wish is to get out of this hideous furry suit! She won't show this picture to anyone, will she?

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A friend told me about a psychological research study which proved that animals become annoyed when their owners dress them up in costumes. (Yes, is anyone else wondering who was stupid enough to fund that project?? And how it was actually published??) I admit it - while I find these photos quite amusing, my goats do not enjoy this activity. Considering that these were the third outfits we tried on, and Elliot became so entangled in his dress that we had to cut it off with scissors, "annoyed" seems a mild description here. I can sympathize with how they feel, having experienced annoyance myself...like when someone ate my strawberry plants, gored a hole in the screen door and left a trail of poop all over the deck. (That was today.) I am often annoyed by pets who escape from their pen and run off down the driveway, or refuse to drink the hot vinegar water I haul outside on chilly nights. Goats, you owe this to me. 

Several years ago, we took a vacation to the ocean with four other families, all in one house. As an avid scrapbooker, my primary goal was to take one terrific group photo of all sixteen kids on the beach together. Too busy building drizzle castles, riding waves and chasing their cousins through the sand, the kids would not cooperate with my efforts to pose them in a line. That's when I lost it, and in a moment which likely still haunts some of the younger children, I began screaming at them.

(ANGRY AUNT VOICE): "I've spent two weeks packing for this trip; I got up at four in the morning to drive seven hours here; I'm sharing a bathroom with nine other people and tonight I'm cooking dinner for twenty-six on three hours of sleep and if you kids don't get over here right now I swear I'll put a pound of sand in the meatloaf and maybe some jellyfish too! NOW LINE UP BY AGE - AND SMILE!!!"

Now I know better. I should have just bribed all the kids with animal crackers!

Narrow Misses

Recently we visited my niece - a lovely young girl, college graduate, newlywed and kindergarten teacher - in what will be my first, and probably last, visit to her new home. I admired the kitchen, the skylight, the hardwood floors...all the way to the basement where she proudly introduced us to her pets - a myriad of aquatic, amphibious and reptilian creatures stacked in cages and tanks - including three stingrays and nine snakes (both the venomous and the squeeze-you-to-death variety). It was a very brief visit.

Snakes, really? Why not a kitten or a goldfish? Even goats have their hazards, but at least they won't slither up the bedpost in the night and swallow you whole! The worst I've had to contend with is being head-butted, kicked, knocked over, slammed into the gate, pooped on, exposed to infectious parasites and punctured with razor-sharp hoof trimmers...oh, and last weekend I was almost run over by a combine.

(For those non-rural readers, that's COM.bine with the emphasis on the first syllable, as in a motorized agricultural vehicle used to harvest crops and approximately the size of a small house.)

I had taken Em and Ellie out to graze in what we call "The Delicious Field," a weedy area at the edge of our property which borders a cornfield. While they filled their bellies, I perched on a green plastic chair at the edge of the tall corn, soon absorbed in my book. (Anyone else read the Game of Thrones series? Goats? What goats?) It was Emerson butting my leg and a vague awareness of a honking noise that drew me from the fantasy world of Chapter 5 - what's wrong, crazy goats? Clearly agitated, they were prancing and circling in front of me, as far down the hill I saw my husband on his tractor waving his arms and sounding the horn. I have never understood why he and his brothers take such gleeful pleasure in teasing and creating commotion, just as he was obviously frightening the goats with his stupid antics. Annoyed, I reached to console the goats (just ignore him, babies!), then turned away in disgust (his wild gestures and horn-beeping even more ridiculous now). Ohhh! And that's when I saw what had so disturbed everyone but me - a gigantic corn-harvester with a twenty-foot blade, fast approaching my reading spot as I sat hidden by the tall corn.

Would the farmer driving the machine have seen me in time, and stopped? Would I have recognized the noise of the motor for more than wind? Would the goats have eventually worked together to push my chair out of the way? I'd like to think so...

Just maybe, though, I should trade in the goats for a nice, safe animal, like a boa constrictor...

Of Cabbages and Kale

It was a devastating loss. After hours of lip-biting, painstaking effort, she had been so certain she would win, and yet the blue ribbon for the County Fair Childrens Coloring Contest went to...someone else. (Are the judges blind?? Who ever heard of purple pigs??) More than a decade ago, my young daughter cried for an hour, then resolutely started planning for the next year. She abandoned her crayons and plotted instead to win her coveted prize in a different category - fresh vegetables. The following summer she helped her Daddy check the garden each day, weeding and watering what were sure to be first-place cherry tomatoes. In August she carefully selected her specimens (five red, five yellow) and proudly presented them at the judging table. On a whim, I also had her pick a few other vegetables to enter. (Why not? I have to drive over there anyway...)

Results were announced the next day. With her dad and sister, we rushed to the overflowing table of tomatoes, and there, by Emily's entry, was...nothing. (Not again! Not even fourth or fifth place? Just because one is a little misshapen - that's called individuality!) I gripped her hand as we moved on to the green beans (Who knew so many people would enter beans? How do they get them all exactly the same size?) and the bell peppers (well, even I didn't expect those to win) and just as I was debating whether a funnel cake might cheer her up after another no-ribbon year, I remembered the cabbage. It was a lopsided, scrawny globe with more than a few worm holes - maybe I should just turn the tag over so nobody would see her name - and that's when I heard her shriek.

"Mommy, I won!! My red cabbage won the blue ribbon! Look! Look! Look!"

That can't be - the blue ribbon must be for one of the other...oh. Then I understood. Nestled among several plump acorn squash and yellow zucchini, hers was the only red cabbage entered. I refrained from mentioning this, snapping half a dozen photos of my beaming daughter clutching her ribbon (I made sure to keep the pathetic cabbage out of the picture!) That was twelve years ago, and in memory of that wondrous moment we have grown red cabbage for the fair every year since then. This year my husband expanded the cabbage row to about thirty plants, just to make sure there was at least one flawless specimen. (You never know - someone else might enter!) Now the fair is done, another blue ribbon is in the drawer...and who on earth is going to eat all that cabbage?

Add to this abundance her sister Megan's new favorite vegetable - kale. Here's what I know about kale - chock full of nutritional value, tasty in soups...and a few seeds produce enough kale for the next ten years. Again, I've had it sauteed, fricasseed, pureed and in the freezer; I've given it away to all my friends - yet it still keeps growing! Help! The rest of the garden is by now just wilted plants and withered stalks, but my prizewinning produce just won't quit.

Enter - the goats. That's right. Here are two animals with absolutely no useful purpose, and two rows of vegetables I can't bear to pick anymore - it's a match made in heaven. Every evening I fling open their gate and yell, "Go to the garden!" and they're off like a flash. I always knew there was a reason we had goats!

A Care Package for the Goats

A friend recently asked me to list my daughters' ten favorite things - limited to items she could both afford and fit in a shoe box. (Sorry, Megan, the life-size Batmobile is out!) Apparently she wanted to mail each of them a "college care package" of special treats. Hmmm...well, Emily likes gourmet tea bags, homemade granola and chocolate-covered raisins; Megan craves pistachios, avocados and sardines in mustard. A good book is always a winner...

But here's the problem - now the goats are jealous. Where's our care package? And so, in no particular order, here is a list of Emerson and Elliot's most favorite things for anyone interested. (Warning - they don't all fit in a shoe box.)

Fresh fruit (especially apple chunks and watermelon, but never pears, peaches or cantaloupe)

Pods PODS! PODS! PODS! (from locust trees, the crispy brown seeds that litter the ground and crunch up so delicious...)

"Orange chips" - a favorite snack created by drying orange peels in the sun until they are hard and crispy

Animal crackers - the more stale, the better. Graham crackers are also an acceptable substitute.

Hot water (which we gave them in the winter and has somehow become a year-round requirement; they turn away at anything less than steaming) and...

Apple Cider Vinegar - in large quantities a necessary additive to their water bowl; they reach their tongues under the bottle to catch the drips as I pour it in and refuse any water not "soured" as they watch

Super-fresh "right from the bale" hay (not to be confused with hay that has been in the feeding tub over an hour and therefore become unacceptable from exposure to air and sunlight)

Paper of any sort, including school assignments, shopping lists, pages from a book or the mail

"Walkie Time" - anticipated daily activity when they are released from their fence to run free and graze wild weeds for an hour or so, and...last, but definitely not least...

Orange Mitten Massage (pictured above) - this bizarre thick rubber glove is so coarsely textured that I had to ask the woman holding the yard sale what on earth its purpose could be. (Apparently it is designed for scrubbing vegetables or peeling potatoes.) Not a bad deal for a quarter, I told Emily, The goats will love this! And they do, lining up for a good nightly rubdown by "orange mitten." Emerson often carries it around in his mouth, looking for someone to wear it...

So, to my family and friends who already drop off watermelon rinds, orange peels and bags of weeds or pods, many thanks from the grateful goats. (What's that - spoiled?? Not my goats!)

Disparity (the word is)

Sometimes, what you wish for is not really what you want. It took a midnight phone call and a smashed watermelon to make me realize this.

Last week I compared Emerson and Ellie to perpetual toddlers, needy little creatures who would never learn to fend for themselves.  Unlike my own daughters, now embracing college life away from home, my sweet goatbabies will forever be dependent on me to meet all their needs. Feed us, walk us, save us from the rain - this will never change. Unfortunately, the goats misinterpreted this as criticism, and now they are working diligently to assert their independence.  First, Elliot learned to open the fence gate with his nose (Hey, we can let ourselves out now!) and then those rascals started finding their own food. My husband recently picked a large watermelon from the garden and brought it up to the deck, forgetting that this fruit is a caprine delicacy. So quick they leapt up and rolled the melon off the outside table...Smash! So yummy! And it even broke into two halves - one for each of us! Don't bother chopping apples today, mommy, we got our own snack. 

Ahh...snacks. Before sending my daughters off to college, I took them grocery shopping for snacks to take along. It was a fun "mother-daughters" outing with no restrictions. (I even bought six cartons of ice cream for myself!) In farewell notes I wrote for them, I told them how much I'd miss trips like this, as well as things like Megan's two-foot high stack of books in the living room, and how Emily always asked me for help finding just the right words as she typed essays on her laptop in the kitchen.  I tried to focus on the positive aspects of their new adventure, stoic and dry-eyed even at the infamous "cry-and-bye" candlelight ceremony as we left them on campus, shedding no tears all that next week - until I once again entered our local market and found myself confronted with all my girls' favorite foods, aisle after aisle of treats I now had no reason to buy. A week's worth of tears flowed freely as I numbly filled my cart with bread and milk and eggs, smaller portions now for just two of us. I may have filled the cupboards, but the house is still so empty...

Monday night I was woken by a harsh jangling sound - the telephone? Fumbling in the dark for the receiver, I glanced at my alarm clock - after midnight! Now in full panic mode, I managed a stuttered "hello?" as I pushed myself upright. The voice which greeted me was cheerful - and strangely familiar.

"Hi Mom, this is Emily."

Instantly the innate "Mom-to-the-Rescue" response was activated, my senses on full alert. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?" Phone in one hand, I was already reaching for the car keys (hospital? police station?) as she continued.

"Well, I'm writing an essay, and I just can't think of the right word for my conclusion. Can I read you the sentence? It's due in the morning."

I turned my disapproving alarm clock toward the wall and closed my eyes as she read aloud. In a dance so familiar, we struggled together for the word she sought - conundrum? quandary? dissonance? -  but this was not our night and finally I left her with a poor substitute and the reassurance that the professor wouldn't notice. And yet...It was about an hour later that the elusive word emerged from the depths of my groggy brain. I crawled from my bed to text her, knowing she could still make the correction before her morning class.

Her response on my screen is one I'll never delete - "THAT'S THE WORD!!!!!!!!!"

How fortunate that our children need us for more than snacks. (Goats, on the other hand...)

A Reminder of Home

Financial aid, health forms, housing, class scheduling, textbooks, packing - the logistical challenge of sending a child to college is daunting. Compound the process by launching two at once - this has consumed our summer. Of course, overshadowing all the administrative details is the emotional component, a fear that we won't stay connected, will they forget all about the parents who raised them these past eighteen years? I made sure to take customary precautions like sending along family photos and threatening to cut off their cell phone service if they don't call home regularly, but still I worried. Then, with only a week to go, I found Emily digging up weeds in the overgrown bank behind the house.

"Are those for the goats?" I asked, although this would not explain the heirloom milk-glass pot in the dirt next to her.

No, she explained that she had decided to transplant some of the wild meadow tea plants which I frequently plucked to brew a delicious, aromatic beverage during the summer months. She would nurture the plant on her dorm room windowsill, she told me, and steep the leaves in a mug of hot water to remind her of home. Nostalgia overwhelmed me as I recalled how in years gone by she would stand on a stool beside me, helping to add just the right amount of brown sugar to the pot...and then I knew this college thing was going to be all right. The bonds of home-brewed tea are not easily broken. I helped her with the arrangement, and by the night before "Move-in Day," the little plant had flourished.

Determined to fit all their belongings into one minivan, my organized loading scheme quickly fell into chaos. (I tried to eliminate unnecessary items, but Megan assured me that red stiletto heels and purple lipstick were definitely both on the mandatory freshman packing list...) I carefully set Emily's potted tea outside on the deck until it was time to leave.

Finally, just enough time to take care of the goats. I opened their gate, as I do every day, calling for them to follow me to their fenced field, as they do every day. Yet, when I looked back, the goats were not following me; in fact, the goats were nowhere to be seen. What on earth...? Then, horrified, I remembered. Not only do goats have supersonic hearing, they also have a supersonic sense of smell, which they had now used to scent and track down one of their favorite snacks just waiting for them on the deck...and by the time I got there, it was all over.

Once again, I ask myself, why???

Open Sesame?

My sister recently shared with me about her research on bird omenology, where people in certain cultures base all their daily decisions on the observed behaviors of birds in their environment. I am skeptical of such superstition, and yet...in the past three days, three things in my life have been accidentally left open or unlocked, each time with potentially disastrous consequences and each time related to goats. What is the meaning of this?

First, on Sunday morning I woke to the sound of rain pounding on the roof. When I went outside to check that Em and Ellie had dry hay in their shed, I noticed that my husband had left all his car windows open. This concerned me, as I recalled an incident several years ago when I drove to work one sunny afternoon, only to realize on my drive home at midnight that the headlights were not operative. After a harrowing trip by only the moonlight, I confronted him. "Did you know your headlights are both burned out?" His reply astounded me. "Oh, that," he answered. "They got shorted out when I left the windows down in the storm last week, but I figured I'd just drive in the daytime until I got them fixed. I guess I forgot about you working late..." This time I made sure to thoroughly dry the entire interior, and I tested all the electrical components (after checking on the goats, of course).

That was Sunday. On Monday my daughters and I went to our local town fair to drop off produce from the garden for the vegetable judging. We were planning to go home after registering our cabbage, squash and beans, but at the last moment decided to walk across the fairgrounds to see the baby goats in the petting zoo. Then we noticed the funnel cake stand, and several hours passed before we returned to the parking lot, where I saw in horror that my front passenger door was wide open. Somehow in our impromptu decision to visit the goats, I had neglected to close the car door, leaving my wallet, keys and an envelope of cash right on the seat. Thankfully we must live in a town of honest people, as everything was still there, but it was quite a while until my heart stopped pounding as I considered what might have been.

Monday evening I went to work until past midnight, hoping to sleep in the next morning.  However, I awoke just after 6:00 am Tuesday to my husband urgently tapping my shoulder. "You have to get up!" he exclaimed. "The goats are loose." Someone had apparently left the gate unlatched the night before, and the goats were having breakfast in my flower beds, gleeful in their new-found freedom and determined not to be caught. I can only imagine what I looked like madly chasing the goats around the yard in my pajamas.

Three days, three things left open or unlatched. Is this a sign? Surely it can't be related to my goats, as I only have two, and yet...at a yard sale Saturday, just before this all started, I saw a sign advertising "Baby Goat for Sale." She was so adorable - and maybe three is a better number than two...I think I might just have to drive by that farm again tomorrow.

Toddlers (with hooves)

Apps, otters, data plans?? Under pressure from my college-bound daughters to upgrade our cell phones from the bulky models which have served us well for nearly a decade, I posted a query for help on a popular social media site. Surely my tech-savvy friends would guide me into the smartphone maze, I thought - but I received a mere two replies. Apparently the flaw was in my timing, as another friend had just posted a question on a controversial topic which quickly garnered dozens of opinions and overshadowed my little phone question.

My friend, a scholarly working mom of two elementary-age children and one extremely large cat, posed this query. Her children desperately wanted a puppy, and they had promised to do all the work. Opinions, anyone?

First, I picked myself off the floor and mopped up my coffee from the counter. What was she thinking?? Anyone who has ever had children or pets will attest that there is only one person in any family who cares for the animals - the mother. I responded, Will your kids scrape up festering dog poop and partially-digested groundhog vomited into the rug? Will they scrub out skunk smell or lift an injured dog (who soon outweighs them) into the minivan for an emergency vet visit? Will they take the puppy outside for nature's call in the middle of the night or in a snowstorm or during the World Cup final? I didn't think so...

I love animals, really. Since my daughters were born, I have cared for two rabbits, four cats, a dog, a guinea pig, a goldfish and a pair of goats. Somehow, I never learn. Get a puppy, I responded, as long as you are willing to do all the work for the next fifteen years. Another mom put it better - "A dog is like adding another child - a toddler - forever."

I shudder. The mere mention of toddlers dredges up long-buried nightmares of potty-training, temper tantrums, absurd preferences and irrational fears. They run off, they smack and bite each other, they never listen...Oh no. I realize I'm describing Emerson and Elliot. My goats are toddlers, reincarnated. And yet...

With the countdown to college fast approaching, there is some comfort in having two toddlers (goats) who won't pack their books and wave goodbye. With children, of course this is the endgame; I always knew that. You teach them to tie their shoelaces, ride a bike, bake cookies, drive a car. If you do it well, you work yourself right out of a job, and one day, off they go...and that's why everyone should have goats. Like toddlers, they'll forever be dependent on me to feed them, treat their scrapes, keep them safe. They'll never turn down a treat, a hug, a story, a bedtime lullaby. They won't go off to summer camp and be "too busy" to call for weeks at a time, or choose a movie with friends over a mom bearing snacks...

Don't get that puppy yet, my friend; spend this precious time with your kids. The years go by so fast. Then, when the kids are ready to leave home, that's the time to get your puppy. Better yet, get a goat... 

Stupid Is...

Making supper last night, I opened a jar of pasta sauce, only to have my daughter grab the jar and scrutinize the label. "Mom!" she exclaimed, "You can't use this! It has HFC in it!"

"H-F-what?"

According to my health-conscious teenagers, it is no longer enough to monitor sugar, salt, and saturated fats. We also need to avoid HFC, or high fructose corn syrup, a component in nearly everything I buy in a jar (jams, sauces, pancake syrup, salad dressing...). Megan informed me that consumption of this common ingredient must be avoided because "it makes you stupid."

"How can that be?" I asked, "I've been eating this stuff for years."

(And yet, I do have goats...Surely there is no correlation?)

Apparently, Megan claims, the "stupidity" side-effect has been scientifically proven by experiments with mice. Rodents who were fed HFC eventually lost their ability to find their way out of a maze. (My suspicion is this - maybe the test mice, suddenly fed a diet of hot-fudge sauce and blackberry jam, didn't want to leave the maze. Hey Stuart, this new food sure beats dry nuts and seeds! Let's just keep wandering around in here and get the good stuff!)

Back to the goats...here's how I know that something in our diet is decreasing general intelligence. Whenever friends, relatives or complete strangers learn that we have goats, they always want to know first whether our pets have the foul "stink" for which bucks are known. I explain that Em and Ellie are neutered males, and therefore devoid of noxious odors. Invariably, the next question is, "Do you milk them?"

Really??? In what alternate universe do we milk male livestock? 

My goats are two of quadruplets. My own daughters, twins. Once, a woman in an elevator peered at my identically-dressed toddlers in their double stroller and commented, "They don't really look alike. Are you sure they're twins?" (Well, yes, I actually am...)

More recently, a school classmate chatted with both girls (one blonde, one brunette; one fair-skinned and freckled to her sister's darker complexion). "I never realized you were twins!" he remarked. "Are you identical or fraternal?"

Maybe we all need to stop eating HFC!!

My Beautiful Goat

This morning the goats both had bloody heads. That's right - black fur, white patches, and between the ears, sticky with red. The first time this happened (a year or so ago), I was fraught with panic, grabbing the first aid bucket and the emergency vet number. Now I'm just relieved that their head-butting game has likely saved me the trouble of wrenching off Elliot's latest scur, or overgrown horn bud, which was growing ominously downward toward his skull. A quick check confirmed my suspicions that the blood was all Ellie's, and all he needed was a spritz of blukote to ward off the flies swarming his wound. Anyway, there are way worse things than a broken scur.

Last month my husband remarked, "Elliot looks so good lately - his coat is perfect!"  Yes, I wanted to shout, he looks amazing - because I fixed him!! This pristine goat with his sleek fur and flawless skin is indeed the same animal who vexed us for a year and a half with a horrendous skin condition resistant to all treatments, including (but not limited to) topical and injected parasectisides, antibiotics, steroids, anti-fungal powder, skin scrapings, multiple biopsies under anesthesia, evaluation by an Ivy League veterinary school, massage therapy, lime sulfur baths, the wearing of socks and t-shirts and the "cone of shame." Nothing worked, no clear diagnosis could be made, and when last winter hit with its bitter ferocity, I just gave up.

Then spring came, and I tried something new, and I cured him.

I wanted to gloat, to tell everyone I knew, to call my vets and my farmer friends and write a blog about this amazing thing. Come see my beautiful goat, I would gleefully offer to everyone who had known him at his worst, all mangy and itchy and scabby. I could brag a little... and I should have, before my window of opportunity closed once again.

I bought a little wooden table at a yard sale a few weeks ago, thinking how much fun the goats would have jumping on and off it. Well, apparently Elliot had a bit too much fun with it, stretching his front legs over the table and then rubbing his belly rhythmically up and down over the edge. By the time I realized what he was doing and got my husband to hold him upside down for an examination, Elliot had rubbed himself so raw that a very critical part of his "boy-goat" anatomy was in peril of detachment from his body. (That's right - due to his earlier neutering, he only has one "boy-goat" part left, and it is not one a male of any species can afford to lose.) The table is gone, the first aid bucket is back, and poor Elliot is once again subject to daily wound treatments with betadine and antibiotic creams and all that...

So come see my beautiful goat. (Just don't look too closely underneath.) And pray I can fix this problem too.

Happy Crappy

At the camp where Emily works, all staff attend a required meeting each Friday evening after the campers depart for home. This is a time to debrief, share stories of the week, collect paychecks - but mostly, for "Happy Crappy."  As Emily explained, "Happy Crappy" is when counselors, lifeguards and cooks alike share the best - and worst - moments of their week. For example, Emily's "crappy" was when she misjudged the gas stove and burnt eleven gallons of tomato soup half an hour before lunch, while another fellow on the kitchen staff shared his "happy" as two hours spent cleaning the oven with Emily...because of the inspiring conversation. I may need to ask for more details here...

So, what if the goats played this game? Perhaps I'd overhear some dialogue from their shed...

"What's your happy today, Elliot?"

"Well, the hot bucket was steaming today, brother - and then when you butted her while she was dripping in the vinegar and she spilled in half the bottle - I loved that!"

"Yeah, that was pretty tricky of me..."

"And how the dad person brushed me all over and then I shook flakes all into the bucket of fresh water and she yelled and got so mad 'cause she had to refill it - that was so funny!!"

"I thought the animal crackers after breakfast were especially delicious today, and the dried orange peels for our afternoon snack - mmmmm! And then she miscounted and gave us each three pods instead of two...and we got watermelon rinds for dessert!"

"Oh yeah, the best. But I think my happy is the same as every day - I know, I know, but we can both have the same happy!"

"I just love the afternoon walk too, brother. Those weeds by the creek , and the crunchy leaves, and how we hurtle down the hill so fast! I ate so many raspberries today - maybe even more than she picked - and she didn't even push me away from the plants. Best hour of my day."

"So, what's your crappy, brother?"

(Silence)

"Me neither."

Sometimes I wish I was a goat.

Tools of Intimidation

Last year, a visiting young man (friend of my daughter) stepped into our garage while my husband was testing his new circular saw. Eager to show off his new toy (since his own daughters are more interested in eyelash curlers and knitting needles than cordless drills or belt sanders), my husband asked the young man to hold a piece of wood while he operated the blade. My daughter's friend quickly backed away, saying "Oh, no - tools intimidate me!" Strike one for that potential suitor!

Power tools can be dangerous, no question.  Nearly every piece of equipment in our garage is covered with dire warnings and graphic illustrations of severed body parts. Somehow my husband still sports ten fingers, yet the tool which recently sent him to the emergency room was not his sandblaster or grinder, but a tiny bungee cord which sprung off a car trunk with the force of a thousand pythons, the metal hook on its end slamming him in the eye. Excellent medical care saved his vision, but since then I give bungee cords a wide berth...

Goats come with their own unique hazards as well. I have reconstituted and administered a caustic medication which, undiluted, actually ate through a metal mixing bowl. Razor-sharp trimmers could slice off a finger just as easily as a chunk of hoof tissue, and anyone who's ever tried to wrangle an eighty-pound goat for an injection knows the needle can go anywhere. However, my own most serious caprine-related injuries have come from an incongruous source -  household brooms, which I use for eight to ten hours each day to sweep away goat droppings. First I developed a painful bone spur on my left hand from the repetitive motion, and more recently I sported my own ocular bruise after being attacked by a dozen or so brooms in a nearby hardware store.

Like a familiar dance partner, I loved my old broom - but with the handle rusted and duct-taped together and the bristles worn down to nubs, it was time to say farewell. Reluctantly I entered a local business (where I knew the owners and most of the staff) to choose a replacement. What happened next was something like a Stephen King version of a house of cards, but with haunted brooms. I had just pulled one down from the overhead wall display when suddenly all of the brooms descended on me in an avalanche of wood and bristles - "Pick me! Pick me!" Though luckily I was the sole customer in the store, this freed all six of the staff to come to my aid as I extricated myself from the pile of giant pick-up-sticks; one kind clerk (a classmate of my daughters - not the one intimidated by tools, thank goodness!) brought me an ice pack for my bruised eye.

The worst part was that I couldn't even purchase a broom, as they were all of the "natural-material" variety where the bristles look like straw and are therefore edible to goats. Maybe I'll just keep using my old plastic broom after all.

Forget Me Not!

What is the memory capacity of a goat? Not very long, it seems...

This summer Emily is working at a camp about an hour away and comes home only on weekends. Exhausted from long days in the camp kitchen, she sleeps most of her brief time at home; I count myself lucky to at least spend quality time with her dirty laundry (which, I suspect, is the only reason she comes home at all). As for her goats...what goats? I have goats?

Saturday I had errands to run and Emily wanted to sit outside with a book. Perfect, I told her, take the goats down in the field and let them graze while you read. I keep a chair down there for just that reason. They know the routine.

Apparently not. Those rascals acted as though they had no idea who Emily was or where she was taking them.  Who is this strange human and why is she trying to make us eat weeds? Let's fight her! Emerson actually butted her, knocking her down the hill and cutting her leg open. Then they spied my car as I pulled out of the driveway...oh no! Our real mommy is getting away! Run, brother, run! We can still catch her!

Yes, after we got them back in their pen and bandaged Emily's leg, I drove away again, pondering how Emerson and Elliot could forget their original "mommy" in just three weeks. Yet, I shouldn't be surprised. Every day they charge mindlessly past the hallowed "Bottle Swing" where for nearly two years they enjoyed the best moments of each day. I still sometimes sit there to reminisce about those early times, but the goats seem to have no memory of our beloved bottle days.

Makes me curious...these goats who follow me from window to window as I clean the house and wail pitifully for my attention - how long would it take them to forget me? Maybe I am due for a vacation...

A Goat in New York City

The consequences of goat-herding are many. These critters decimate your landscaping, ruin your wardrobe, drain your budget and eat up all your free time. You'd have to be crazy to get a pair of pet goats...or is it the goats who made us crazy?

Recently my family took a goat to New York City for three days. Trains, subways, crowded sidewalks, hotel suite, Times Square, Broadway - he was there. We even took him into the New York Public Library. If you've never ridden in a cramped elevator with five tourists and a goat, you'll want to try it someday.

Our travel companion was a foot-long rubberized rendition of a horned goat who bears absolutely no resemblance to the sweet darlings we left at home in their yard (whining pitifully at their abandonment, no doubt). He is a recent acquisition from my aunt's vast goat collection, which seems to be relocating in increments to our house. The latest box contained adorable stuffed goats in little outfits, trendy T-shirts...and the most revolting creature I've even seen, affectionately dubbed "Mutant Goat."  How he ended up in my luggage is a mystery, but once there, how could we deny him the Big Apple experience?

You might guess that tourists posing for photos with a hideous miniature goat would garner stares or quizzical looks, but no one even seemed to notice. Apparently strange and bizarre behavior is more the norm in the city than in our rural hometown.

We decided Em and Ellie would not have enjoyed the city - except for Central Park. With all the giant climbing rocks and an endless supply of edible greenery, they could live there forever.  Maybe if I gave them a hat to collect coins, they would dance for passers-by. Now, if only I sneak get them on the train...

Hoof-Trimming Fun in the Sun

This weekend we stopped at my sister's house en route to a graduation party...how fortunate for her four goats who haven't had their hooves trimmed since my last visit many months ago. I have a soft spot for goats with neglected feet, so it was time to put everyone to work. Obi (above) is an ex-bottle baby who still loves sitting on anyone's lap, but it took four of us to corner Jedi and get him in the trimming chair. It was a profitable day - four goats, four cloven feet each equals 32 total hooves trimmed and we still made it to the party on time! No better way to spend an afternoon! 

Acronyms for Goats

Today my daughters took their high school final exam in English - that glorious study of not only poetry and literature but also such fascinations as personification, oxymorons, alliteration, symbolism, paradox and iambic pentameter. You may wonder the value of knowing that "zeugma" refers to when one word modifies multiple words with different meanings, as in "He was deep in thought and debt." (Right, deep is the zeugma in this quote from poet Alexander Pope.) Let me expound...

Even goats can benefit from a basic knowledge of literary terms. In our family, an acronym commonly used is "L.O.P." (not to be confused with "L.P.") - generally delivered in an exasperated shout and meaning "loss of privileges." For example, if Em and Ellie are taken on a walk to a non-fenced field and suddenly bolt toward the road, I might scream "Goats!! L.O.P!!" as I chase them back to their pen. Or if Emerson has chewed all the rubber edges from his comfy sleeping mat, I sternly chastise him with "L.O.P!" as I yank the mat away and leave him on the hard concrete. Loss of privileges can occur when someone knocks over the entire treat bucket because he is too impatient to wait his turn, or when two naughty goats dash into the garage if the door was left open, or when a mean rascal head-butts his brother to the point of drawing blood in order to get all the good weeds.

We are more like goats than we may dare admit, as humans also experience L.O.P. For misbehavior such as speeding or inappropriate texting, you can lose your driver's license; non-payment of bills results in the loss of phone service or electricity. Your library card is dependent on prompt return of books and fee-free banking requires a minimum balance.

So why can't my goats behave? Poor Elliot (rarely the culprit) is so confused. Each time I yell at his skunky, malicious brother, "L.O.P.!!!" - sweet Elliot immediately stops and empties his bladder. We finally figured it out. Affectionate as he is, Ellie is just a bit daft, and I believe what he hears instead of "L.O.P." is "Ellie, go pee!" (Go ahead, say it out loud.)

What a good goat I have! 

Initials for Short

We have acquaintances whose youngest daughter has always been called "L.P." As her older siblings all have ordinary names, I once asked what the letters stood for. Her response was enlightening. Although she has a given first and middle name (unknown to most people and neither starting with "L" or "P"), her nickname stands for "Last Pregnancy." Apparently her parents decided early that they needed a constant reminder that four children was enough. Still the baby of the family, L.P. is now in college, so I guess it was an effective plan.

Infants can be so adorable; the temptation is enormous. I have a well-meaning aunt who frequently sends me photos and videos of frisky baby goats, sweet things frolicking in the sun or looking at me with luminous brown eyes - and yes, I want a baby goat. I want to hold it on my lap and nudge a bottle into that tiny mouth and wipe the milky drips from a downy chin...to let it fall asleep in my arms as we rock on the swing in the sunshine. I think I know a breeder who still has a few available...

First, though, I have to finish a little cleaning outside. Overnight Emerson and Elliot had what we now call a "newspaper party," where they pry apart the mats in their shed and then shred the insulating paper all over the yard. There are huge piles of droppings to sweep off the deck, and I noticed someone has started eating roof shingles again. (I'm not sure how they were still hungry after getting into all the strawberry plants!)

Let me introduce you to the culprits - L.G. #1 and L.G. #2.

 I hope it works!

The Fence Attempt - Take 5 (by Emerson, Guest Blogger)

Let's review the plan one more time, Ellie, just in case she tries to put us in that awful fence again. Pay attention! She'll drag you in first like always - put up just enough fuss to wear her out. Meanwhile, I'll take off across the field. When she finally catches me, I'll whine and tug against the leash while she drags me up the hill, then thrash into the ground and make choking sounds from my way-too-tight collar. You pretend to be grazing contentedly, but when she opens the gate to shove me in, you rush over and escape. Imprisoned, I'll hurl my body against the gate while she chases after you, and when she catches you again, wrap your leash around her foot so she ends up inside the fence with us. By that time she'll be so out of breath she'll just sit down and pull out that book she keeps in her backpack with our emergency snacks.

Listen up! While she reads in the fence with us, we'll fill our bellies and lure her into a false sense of security as she slowly inches toward the gate. Notice anything, brother? Me neither; I'm just happily eating these weeds over here... When she makes her move, we'll be on that gate like a flash - did she honestly think we would let her out? Hot and thirsty (and strangely unwilling to drink from our water bucket), she'll just give up. Victory is ours! Freedom! And it's a race to the deck - who will get there first? Will it be Super-Ellie, Speedy Skunk, or the Stupid Slow Human? Hurry it up - we need some animal crackers here!

Phase Two is all me, Ellie. You're too transparent. Can't you see it now? And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to...Emerson! This is where I act so traumatized by the experience that I can't settle down. I do the whole panting, tongue-lolling, wide-eyed quivering thing (goat-on-the-verge-of-a-heart-attack-all-the-fault-of-a-mean-horrible-human) so convincing that she panics and sits on my bench next to me and sings my favorite lullaby until I fall asleep.

I could get used to this...I wonder if we're doing the fence-thing tomorrow?

Delicious - or Dreadful?

A child of the sixties, I grew up in the era of Dr. Benjamin Spock and "tough love" and letting babies cry themselves to sleep. Though I have no memories of my earliest years, I am told that I suffered a severe separation anxiety and fear of being alone in my room at night, often climbing out of my crib to lie wailing on the floor with my tiny fingers (palms up) scrabbling under the door frame, frantically trying to pry the door from the hinges. Such was my terror of being locked in my room all alone.

I know how Emerson feels.

A few months ago we invested significant time and money in fencing our side field for the goats, providing them with a wonderful weedy grazing area much larger than their fenced yard next to the house. Here, we reasoned, they could safely forage for hours on wild grasses, thornbushes and poison ivy - all the things goats love. We call it "The Delicious Field" (because they used to love grazing there).They call it "Prison," "Little Corner of Hell," or "No-Way, No-How Are You Getting Us Through That Gate!" They were content when I sat in with them, but since they realized the field is a place where they are left alone, they now equate it with the terror of abandonment. Emerson refuses to eat out there, instead running in giant frantic circles, crying and throwing his body against the fence.

Yesterday I was determined to put them in the field. It was a warm day and I was just too busy to stand and watch them graze along the outside of the fence (their usual practice, cleverly staying far from the gate). I assembled all the required tools - collars, leashes, animal crackers, pods, Emily (home from school for the morning). With substantial bribery I half-dragged, half-lured Elliot through the gate, where he gave a peremptory fuss but then wandered off to forage, resigned to his fate. Emerson was fighting Emily with everything he had, but the two of us finally overpowered him, heaved him into a wagon and maneuvered him inside the fence.

Only one problem - I was locked in with them...

After about ten minutes Emily was able to lure Emerson away from the gate with a handful of pods, but as I tried to sneak out I glimpsed a flash of black fur and there he was, tearing toward the house at roughly twice the speed of light. Blasted goat! I found him cowering on the deck, shaking and panting, perhaps hoping I wouldn't find him. We sat together on the deck as he slowly relaxed and laid his head on my knee. This is the goat who stands on a bench outside the kitchen window and watches me wash dishes. Don't try to leave me out there ever again, Mommy. I just want to be where you are... 

Hot Bowl, please!

The flooding of the goat shed was actually my fault - a tactical error brought on by good intentions...

When my daughters were about a year old, my sister accused me of being obsessed with their hydration status, noting how I fretted about their fluid intake and constantly offered them sippy cups and little juice pouches. As teenagers, they easily regulate their own fluids, but my long-dormant nurse instincts now have other critters to monitor.

Two key fact about goats. First,adequate water intake is critical for wethers (neutered males) because of their tendency toward urinary blockages. Second, goats detest cold beverages, preferring to drink only water warmer than 60 degrees F. (As my daughter Megan says, "I read that on the internet, so it must be true!") Over the winter we regularly treated our goats to "Hot Bowl," which used to be a teapot but is now a gallon milk jug of steaming hot water from the bathtub tap poured into their favorite metal bowl. Additionally we discovered that a splash of apple cider vinegar made this heated treat nearly irresistible, and I took pride in every bowl they drank. It's something like the satisfaction a mother feels when her child eats broccoli...

With the advent of spring weather, I have encouraged Emerson and Ellie to accept their water simply warmed by the sun, but they are resistant to this change, often circling the bowl with sniffs of disdain. We can't drink this tepid stuff! Where's the steam rising off the bowl? Unacceptable! Periodically they gag down a tiny sip to quench their parched throats, sometimes even lifting their tails over the bowl so I am forced to refill it with clean (and hopefully warmer) water. And don't forget the vinegar this time, human!

Friday was cool and rainy, and the goats were stuck in their shed for most of the day. I noticed that the water bucket was still full after several hours and was of course concerned about dehydration. Poor goaties - when they saw me coming with the steaming hot water jug, they leapt up in delight, slurping the bowl dry in less than a minute before looking at me expectantly. More? I ran back inside to refill it, not once but three more times as they gleefully guzzled the hot water. Four entire gallons those thirsty goats drank, before I kissed them goodnight and headed in to bed myself, relieved that I had rehydrated them and likely averted a health catastrophe. I was tempted to warm myself up with a cup of tea, but decided against it to avoid a middle-of-the-night call to the bathroom. Only as I was drifting off to sleep did I wonder what would happen to those four gallons of water filling two goat bladders...Was it sort of like giving your potty-training toddler a super-sized juice cup right before bed?

Much worse, actually. Fortunately they could cling to the hay rack to stay afloat, though it took me all morning to mop out the shed. From now on we have a one-bowl limit at bedtime...

Not the Meatloaf

I pulled into the driveway late afternoon, after a grueling day of re-certification testing at work. Mentally exhausted and stressed from fighting through horrendous traffic and road construction, all I wanted was a bowl of ice cream and a few minutes on the couch before I thought about cooking dinner. My two daughters greeted me on the sidewalk, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. (I didn't realize how much they missed me!)

"Mom, we have two things to tell you..."  Trust me when I say this is never good to hear from a teenager.

Apparently Emerson had somehow gotten into the house earlier, squeezing himself through the back door left open "just a crack." The girls quickly reassured me that they were cleaning up the damage, and hadn't I always said I didn't like that blue armchair anyway? It's almost like the goat did us a favor, shredding up those cushions...

At my icy stare, they retreated, still blocking my way to the front door as I asked, "And the second thing you have to tell me?"

"We made supper! It's almost ready."

It was like heaven's angels erupted in song around me - my wonderful children, all is forgiven! For a night off from the detested chore of cooking, I'd let Emerson eat an entire couch. I hugged the girls and opened the front door to a savory aroma which effectively covered any lingering goat scent...mmmmm! Peeking in the oven I spied sizzling potatoes and a lovely meatloaf. Even my husband (who moans that I cook too much chicken and fish and not enough red meat) would be happy tonight. Maybe the girls would let me take the credit...

Emily served everyone a plate and Mike eagerly took his first bite, just as Megan asked, "So, Dad, how do you like the lentil loaf?"

I think the events which followed are best summed up like this - while the healthful "lentil loaf" (a close cousin to tofu, in my mind) may look and smell like meatloaf, it has a taste all of its own. Or, as Mike growled while he scraped it into the sink, "You know what you should add to make this edible? How about meat?"

Actually, I was thinking bacon...

I wonder if goats like lentils?

Pods!!

Last fall we discovered that the goats' most favorite crunchy snack was these long brown seed pods from our honey locust trees. Since they quickly devoured all the pods from our own two trees, this led to a hunt all over town for similar trees so we could stock up on winter treats. Emily and I hit the jackpot one November day at a local park and harvested enough pods to fill the entire trunk of my car, and last week a friend gifted us with two more large trash bags of pods which had survived the winter covered in snow. The goats were ecstatic, but now we have a storage problem as the garden shed is already full and the pungent odor of the pods makes me reluctant to leave them in the garage.

Yesterday, driving down the road, we spied the solution - a portable container apparently designed just for goat-owners, capable of holding all the stinky treats you'll ever need. Now I just have to convince my husband that one of these will look perfect in our driveway...

Under Arrest

Anyone with animals can identify with the propensity of pet-owners to speak to their cats and dogs in that rather annoying, sing-song baby talk voice, as in "Here, kittty-witty, Mommy has your foody-woody ready..."  Generally I disdain this tendency for my felines, as they are probably more intelligent than most humans, but the goats are a different story. Clearly their brain development has not kept pace with their physical growth (as evidenced by their current nicknames, Dumbhead and Stupid-O), so we naturally speak to them in a language more likely to be understood. Em and Ellie have "drinkies" and "treat-ies" and sleep in their "sheddy." Their most favorite time of day is "walkie," when I take them down in the lower field to eat weeds and run free for an hour or so.

Last Saturday we enjoyed a lazy stroll by the woods, listening to the sounds of spring - birds chirping, a rustling breeze, police sirens...Recently local law enforcement officials have been setting up speed traps about a half-mile up the road, and all day long we hear the sirens as unsuspecting speeders are pulled over just around the corner. By now accustomed to the intermittent wailing sirens, the goats don't even look up any more.

After a while I began thinking about a snack myself, so I patted them each on the rump and started toward the house. As usual, the goats took off in a frantic dash up the hill, knowing that I would follow and give them each an animal cracker and a bucket of steaming hot water on the deck, where they could bask in the sunshine until the next activity. The goats reached the driveway about the same time I crested the hill, and as they skidded to a stop, panic overwhelmed me as I saw what had startled them - not one, but three police cars in our driveway, with several armed officers surrounding another vehicle, and I could just imagine what the goats were thinking at this unexpected sight...which was clearly more than a routine traffic stop -

Look at all those new peoples, Emerson! Should we smell them and see if they have any treats? - Good idea, brother! I want to jump on those shiny cars with the pretty flashing lights - Do you think a carnival has come to us?

Desperate at the thought of my goats interrupting a gun battle, damaging police property or impeding an arrest, I ran up the hill as fast as I could while shrieking, "Decky, decky! Go to the decky!" And - for this I will always love them - they did. With one wistful glance at the cluster of interesting people and sparkling lights, they turned and charged up the concrete steps to the deck and waited for me there.

That day I gave them each two animal crackers. Then I locked myself in the basement until all the excitement was over. And by the way, a reminder to friends and family, the speed limit here is 45 mph. Really.

The Bacon Conspiracy

Previously only served with eggs and wrapped around scallops, bacon seems to be everywhere now. Chocolate-covered bacon strips, bacon lollipops, bacon chocolate-chip cookies... Is this a subtle effort to subvert the American diet even more? My local grocery store markets an oversize donut topped with cream icing and a strip of crispy bacon - like breakfast and a heart attack all in one! Recently a friend showed me an innovative alarm clock app for your smartphone, featuring the option to wake up to the sound of sizzling bacon.

Wait. It gets better. Also available (though only in limited quantities) is a "smell-emitting device" to plug into your phone, so that not only do you hear the fat frying as you wake, you also inhale the delicious aroma. I have to wonder how effective that is, though. After twenty or thirty mornings of leaping out of bed and dashing to the kitchen only to find out it's just another cereal morning, I might just pull my pillow over my head and go back to sleep.

Two thoughts here. First, whoever downloads this app is a lunatic. Really. Second, if there is a market for this, I can do better. As an incentive to make a quick exit from a cozy bed, how about the sound of clattering hooves and throaty braying, mimicking a herd of feral goats about to leap onto your covers? Try hitting the snooze button on that! Oh, and as for the smell-emission device, I'm sure Emerson and Ellie could provide some input...

Yes, goats are loud, and sometimes malodorous. However, there are worse things, as evidenced by what happened to a friend last week. After a close encounter with a skunk, her two rambunctious dogs ran through the entire house, spreading the offensive smell everywhere. Fortunately, my friend (a teaching assistant) had plenty of time to fumigate and scrub the house, since she and both her children were promptly sent home from school because of their, well, odor. 

Maybe the most effective alarm clock app should not mimic a person's favorite food, but rather the animal whose scent they most dread. Sort of like a wildlife "Room 101" (anyone read Orwell lately?).

All Fenced In

What better way to spend the last official weekend of the fifth-most miserable winter ever (according to the National Weather Service "misery index")? Gather the whole family and install nearly four hundred feet of goat fencing, of course! This project began with a limited-time-offer coupon from our favorite farm supply store and ended with a fenced area my husband tells me is about a third the size of a football field. The fencing is advertised as sturdy and easy to install, although our task was complicated by two curious "helpers" who were really very little help at all.

Any activity in which they participate with their "peoples" is great fun for Emerson and Elliot, who always want to be wherever we are. I am dreading the first time they are locked in their new field alone, abandoned by the humans they love. Wait! Come back! (shrieking and wailing) But we are so far from the house! We hate these weeds! We refuse to eat them! (hurling of goat bodies against the fence) Just let us eat hay on the deck, so close to you, pleeeeease! We promise we will never poop all over the deck again! (Ok, I made that one up.)

Something tells me I will be spending a lot of time inside this fence...

Gone for Groceries

With no milk and only one slice of bread in the house, yesterday warranted a run to the grocery store after I completed my morning goat chores - dealing with empty hay tubs, frozen water buckets and massive overnight elimination. It occurred to me that my days consist of one constant cycle - I haul tubs of hay outside for the goats, they scatter half of it on the ground and transform the rest into little brown pellets, then I return with a broom to sweep it all up. Begin again...

It could be worse, however. Even my craziest day is a restful retreat compared to my younger sister's schedule. Not only does she have twice as many goats as I do, she also boasts one extra child, one additional cat, and five more dogs than live here. And that doesn't even take into account the horses and chickens and her full-time job...Recently she told me about a phone call she got at work - it was her neighbor calling to mention that my sister's three horses had broken through their fence and were cantering up the road toward the local supermarket. Having already been cited by township officers regarding escaped livestock in that particular store (the piglet in the laundry basket in the back seat of a squad car is a story for another day), my sister rushed from work to lure her wayward horses home. Fortunately, animal crackers work the same magic in the equine world as they do for caprines, and an hour later my sister was back at work, her boss none the wiser.

Today my "to-do" list contains seventeen items. Some may get done (after I finish Elliot's skin treatment); many will just move onto tomorrow's list. It doesn't matter. For this I am thankful - at least I have never had to send the goats out for groceries!

Sleeping Like a Baby...

In the midst of a diabolical winter, suddenly we were graced with a day of sunshine and temperatures approaching fifty degrees. While Emily and I gave the goats much-needed baths, my husband shoveled all the snow off the deck. Restricted for several months to a narrow strip of space under the eaves, Em and Ellie were delighted at this new expanse of wood and the fun clattering sound made by their hooves as they ran across the boards. Finally, exhausted, they collapsed in the sun for a nap. Sometimes, conditions are just perfect for sleeping...

Eighteen years ago, I had almost forgotten what sleep was. After several months in the hospital following their premature birth, our twin daughters had finally come home, bringing with them nonstop chaos. Gone were uninterrupted sleep, regular meals and any hint of sanity. When my frazzled husband mentioned that our church deacons wanted to visit one evening, I nearly choked on my twice-reheated pizza. The living room was littered with dirty diapers, congealed baby spit-up and heaps of laundry, and I was wearing the same clothes I'd slept in the night before (not that we really got more than an hour of sleep at a time). Entertain company tonight? Sure, why not?

Our guests arrived around 7 pm and graciously offered to feed the screamers, a brave gesture as the babies weighed a mere four pounds each and were tethered to heart monitors balanced on the coffee table. Bottles downed, the contented infants snuggled in their arms, our guests asked, "How long will they sleep?"

"No way to tell," I replied. "although they always sleep better when they're held."  What on earth do we talk about now? Should I offer them a snack - cold pizza, anyone? But there is wisdom in experience, and as parents themselves (their children grown) and no doubt prodded by our disheveled and bleary appearance, this kind couple had other ideas. "Why don't you both go take a nap," Sharon suggested. "We'll just hold the babies for an hour or two."

Oh no, I couldn't...but a whole hour! Or two! All at one time! Amidst my feeble protests I realized Mike was headed back the hallway - no need to ask him twice. If you insist... Mike was already snoring when my head hit the pillow. That's all I remember.

Confused to be wakened by my bladder instead of wailing infants, I pushed aside the covers and peered at the clock in the dark bedroom. WHAT??? Just minutes shy of midnight?? I shook Mike in panic. "Did you get up?" But his inarticulate grunt belied the truth as I stumbled into the living room - we had slept for nearly five hours as Sharon and Calvin, unable to move off the couch because of the heart monitor cords, held our babies, who were just beginning to fuss. Just like a fabulous gourmet meal or a film that grips your soul, I have never forgotten that sleep, a precious gift that rejuvenated me and got me through the worst of those earliest days.

Shhhhh...use the other door. We don't want to wake the goats!

Driveway races, Sochi-style

Previously a welcoming, tree-lined path with gentle curves and a small sloping hill, our driveway this winter has mutated into a treacherous snare frought with such hazards as invisible, impenetrable ice chunks and mammoth drifts capable of swallowing both humans and automobiles. Accordingly, we have renamed it the "Driveway of Death" and posted a sign (in the interest of public safety) -"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" (Dante, anyone?); "Abandoned vehicles may be claimed in the spring." Last week I had been hopeful about adding to our snowblower fund after initiating negotiations to lease the driveway as a training run for the Olympic bobsled team, but the deal fell through after it was deemed too hazardous a run for the athletes.

Winters like this breed discouragement and despair, and it has taken a small black goat (who didn't even see Broadway's 42nd Street but surely has heard us singing the lyrics) to remind me to look for "the sunny side in every situation." Instead of moping that he is stuck in the shed all day again with his itchy brother and hasn't seen a blade of grass in months, Emerson invented a fun activity to occupy his days - The Running Game. I have been letting the goats roam the driveway most days while I shovel, since as a narrow channel with cavernous white walls it affords no escape, not even at the end, usually, as the snowplows keep sealing it shut. Emerson stands alert at one end until I give him a signal (clap, yell, anything) and then he hurtles off at breakneck speed to the other end, where he stops to dance around upright on his back legs before the return dash. Somehow this repetitive activity gives him immense pleasure, although when I tried it, I ended up with a bruised hip and a knee brace, so now Elliot and I just watch and cheer him on. This looks like his best run yet, Bob, there's the time to beat, and it's Emerson for the gold! And the crowd goes wild; there's a goat on the podium!

As my sympathetic aunt in Florida reminded me yesterday, there are only 29 days until spring. Maybe I'll miss all the snow after it melts...maybe not.